“Archer Farm is a unique place,” Brynn said.
Her mind, however, wasn’t on the farm or the teens. All she could think of was how much she was attracted to Rand, from his thick brown, professionally styled hair to the tips of his expensive Gucci loafers. And especially everything in between. For someone with his obvious fortune and prestigious career, he’d acted remarkably at home in the Davidsons’ cheery kitchen and had related easily to his hosts, just like a regular guy. She wondered if he preferred champagne to beer, whether he ever watched football games on Sunday afternoons, or got his well-manicured hands dirty working around the house or in the yard. And the million dollar question: would he be here long enough for her to find out?
Her gut warned her to cut her losses and run, to avoid any further contact with Rand and Jared so their eventual departure wouldn’t hurt. But her heart was a different story.
“It’s been such a great day—” Rand slanted her a look that made her suddenly hot in her bulky sweater “—that I don’t want it to end. Come back to River Walk with us. You haven’t had a chance to see the place in daylight.”
No way, her mind was screaming, but her reply came from her heart. “I’d love to.”
His face lit up like Fourth of July fireworks, his delight so obvious Brynn had to look away. She restrained herself from beating her head against the passenger window in frustration. Why hadn’t she just said no?
Because Rand Benedict is a very special man, maybe the one you’ve been looking for all your life, a voice inside her head insisted.
But she hadn’t been looking for a man, not even a special one. Had she?
Certainly not one who would pull up stakes, head north into Yankee land and take her heart with him. And the harder she tried to maintain that he was still a lowdown skunk of a lawyer, the more Rand did to disprove her bias.
His parting words to Jeff had been a good example. In the gravel parking lot, Rand had pulled a thin leather folder from his shirt pocket, extracted a card and handed it to Jeff. “I’d like to help out here. If you ever need legal assistance of any kind, give me a call.”
Jeff had thrown a calculating glance at the sleek Jag and shook his head. “I’m afraid Archer Farm can’t afford your fees.”
“Who said anything about paying?” Rand had said with steel in his voice. “Anything you need, I’ll provide pro bono. It’s the least I can do.”
Just remembering his offer made Brynn want to unhook her seat belt and hug Rand breathless.
As if tuned to her thoughts, he reached across the console between the seats, took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. His skin was warm, his grip strong and she didn’t have the will to pull away.
“Didn’t you ever take a defensive driving course?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Why?”
“You’d have learned to keep both hands on the wheel.”
He lifted her hand, still clasped in his. “Your objection personal or professional?”
Tell him it’s personal, her head insisted, but her heart prevailed. “Professional. I’m a stickler for rules.”
He laughed with a deep rich chuckle that warmed her bones. “We make a good pair, you and me.”
She cast him a glance, her lips quirked in skepticism. “Right. We have so much in common.”
“Don’t you see? We’re like the TV show. Law and Order, that’s us.”
Us. The word pulled at her with possibilities, then punished her with problems.
“Funny,” she said, struggling for levity. “I never thought of myself as looking like Jerry Orbach.”
He laughed again and released her hand to make the turn toward River Walk.
Lillian must have heard the car’s approach, because the housekeeper was waiting when they pulled in front of the house. Noting that Jared was asleep, she merely waved in greeting, then lifted the boy from his carrier and took him inside to complete his nap.
Brynn stepped out of the car into the warm spring air, shucked her sweater over her head and tossed it on the front seat. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, Rand circled the car.
“Ever taken the river walk the house is named for?” he asked.
Brynn shook her head, gazed first at his loafers, then at her own high-heeled boots. “We’re not exactly dressed for hiking.”
“We won’t be blazing a trail, just following a carefully constructed one.”
He held out his hand. She placed hers in his and allowed him to lead her across the main deck toward the rear of the house and down a series of stairs. At the river’s edge, they stepped onto a path, constructed of pea gravel and lined with heavy timbers, that meandered with the river. In summer, overhanging branches of poplar, maples and oaks would form a shady canopy, but today the bud-laden branches merely threw a lacy twig pattern across the path. Scattered at random on either side of the walk-way, as if sown by nature instead of man, were plantings of bright yellow forsythia, white jonquils, pink and lavender tulips and deep purple irises.
“I had no idea this was here,” Brynn said. “It’s a linear garden.”
“The original owner had it planted for his wife, who loved flowers. The real estate agent assured me there are flowers for every season, from now through fall, especially roses. And evergreens, too—” he pointed to nandina and hollies “—for winter color.”
“Too bad you won’t be here to enjoy it all.” Brynn withdrew her hand from his at the reminder of his coming departure.
“I’ll be here awhile.”
“Till summer?”
“I’m not sure.” He avoided her gaze by looking out over the river tumbling below them at the bottom of the bank. “But this is our vacation home, so we’ll be back often.”
Hope blossomed, but only for an instant before withering again. “You’ve admitted you’re a workaholic. How often do you take vacations?”
He reached down and plucked a deep pink tulip and handed it to her. “I’m taking one now.”
“And how long since your last one?”
“I went skiing in Tahoe a little over a year ago.”
“Let me guess. You went with clients. You were working on a deal.”
His eyes widened in alarm. “How do you know that?”
“From everything I’ve observed about you. You never relax, not without a purpose.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “I’m relaxed now.”
His breath, still faint with cinnamon from Jodie’s ice cream, caressed her face. Above them, a crab apple, its gnarled branches thick with lacy blossoms, blocked the sun.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned.
“Like what?”
“Like a long-time dieter contemplating a hot-fudge sundae.”
Desire swirled in the brown depths of his eyes, and a corresponding wave of heat rolled through her stomach.
“Why, Officer Sawyer, I didn’t know you’d been holding out on me.”
“What?” Longing fogged her brain.
“You never told me you could read minds.”
Before she could respond, he dipped his head, pulled her to him and claimed her lips with his. Her body seemed to soften and transform, like a shape-shifter’s, molding to him with the fluid quality of liquid mercury. She lifted her arms around his neck, and he slid his hands around her waist and pressed her closer.
She wanted to consume him, to be devoured by him, to blur the lines where Rand began and she ended. She opened herself to his kiss, and their tongues touched, breaths mingled. His pulse vibrated through the rock-hardness of his muscles, and the beat of his heart speeded and synchronized with hers. She threaded her fingers through the silky thickness of his hair, while his hands massaged her back in mind-blowing circles.
The backfire of a truck echoed from the distant highway and brought her to her senses. She pulled away, gasping for breath, like a diver breaking the surface after a too-deep plunge. She tugged at the hem of her blouse, more to still her t
rembling fingers than from a need to straighten it.
Rand kept his arms around her waist, and she leaned back to gaze at him.
His remarkable mouth that had just driven her to the edge of wildness curved in a slow grin. “Know what you taste like?” he asked.
“Cinnamon?” she guessed.
He shook his head. “You taste like more.”
“More what?” Brynn asked.
“More kisses.” His words were teasing, but his eyes were serious.
His kiss had shattered her reason, broken through her reserves and blown her innate caution to the four winds. The last thing she needed now was what she wanted most: to kiss him again.
She placed her hands against the broad expanse of his chest and pushed herself from the temptation. “We shouldn’t go there.”
Disappointment wreathed his face. “You didn’t like it?”
“I liked it too much. But why travel down a dead-end road?”
His features relaxed at her admission of enjoyment. “Carpe diem?”
“Seize the day?” She didn’t know whether she was angry with herself, him, the circumstances or all of the above. “You want short-term thrills, take a trip to Dollywood.”
He puckered his features in confusion. “Dolly-wood?”
She heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Dolly Parton’s theme park in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Don’t you Yankees know anything?”
With that parting shot, she pivoted on her heel and started back toward the house, not trusting herself to be alone with Rand a minute longer.
Chapter Eight
Spurred by a sense of eager anticipation, Rand parked his silver Jag in the crowded lot of the First Baptist Church on Saturday morning. He’d been to other flea markets—bigger events than this one, like the outdoor sales in Little Italy in New York—but never had he felt like a kid on his way to a candy store.
As he climbed out of his car and locked it, part of the reason was obvious. Brynn was working, so he was sure to run into her patrolling the activities of Daffodil Days. He’d phoned often since last Saturday, but she hadn’t returned his calls. After he’d kissed her at River Walk last week, she’d been polite, but standoffish, and had thanked him primly for a nice day when he’d delivered her to her door. But her coolness had contrasted sharply with the fire he’d felt when he’d held her, and she continued to draw him like a flame lures a moth.
He wouldn’t apologize for kissing her. How could he say he was sorry for something he’d enjoyed so much that he couldn’t get it out of his mind? But maybe he could melt her chilly attitude and convince her to spend time with him again.
He circled the barricade that blocked all but pedestrian traffic from the main street and stepped into the crowd. His gaze swept the tables and booths assembled along the curbs, and he was jolted with a second reason for his anticipation of the day. He liked these people and their little town. In Pleasant Valley, he’d encountered a sense of belonging that he’d never experienced before, certainly not in the rarefied atmosphere of the Hamptons where he’d grown up, nor in the dog-eat-dog jungle of corporate law.
Hoping to run into Brynn, Rand had come into town often during the past week. He’d shopped for Lillian at Blalock’s Grocery, walked the aisles of Fulton’s Department Store and bought a soda and a moon pie—the latter confection recommended by the clerk—at Paulie’s Drugstore. Everyone he’d met had been friendly and welcoming, offering gracious and attentive service and pleasant conversation, the likes of which he seldom received in his home city. But his quest to run into Brynn had proved futile, and he hoped for better luck today.
Above the hubbub of voices and music, a familiar voice called his name. Rand turned to see Jodie, manning a table outside the café. He threaded his way through the crowd and bought a cup of coffee from her. In spite of being harried with sales, she flashed him a warm smile and took time to inquire after Jared.
At the next table, Gofer sat with three of the boys from Archer Farm, doing a brisk business as buyers scooped up items from their display of crafts. Like ducks on a June bug, Rand thought with a smile, remembering the colorful turn of phrase from a story Tom Fulton had shared with Rand in his store. When Gofer glimpsed Rand, his face split in a cordial grin.
The next vendor Rand spotted was Vera Mauney, Joe’s wife, seated beneath one of the spreading maples that lined the street, with an array of buckets and pails spread out at her feet. Each vessel was filled with water and packed tight with bouquets of spring flowers, including the ubiquitous cheery daffodils for which the festival was named. Vera caught his eye, smiled and waved.
Rand waved back and recalled his meeting with the Mauneys a few days ago. Farrington had been pushing Rand for results, so he’d visited the Mauney farm, after phoning to ask if he could bring Jared to see the cows. Vera’s response had been immediate and enthusiastic. “Come and stay for lunch. We’re always happy to see our neighbors.”
Her unbridled hospitality had stung his conscience, since his intent hadn’t been so much a social call as a scheme to scope out the Mauney property before making an offer for Farrington to purchase it.
Vera’s husband Joe, a big man of few words and a face weathered by age and the elements, had escorted Rand and Jared around the meticulously maintained dairy barn with its shining stainless steel milking machines. Then they had strolled over the gently rolling fields, gloriously lush and green with the first growth of spring under the bright April sun. The dairyman hadn’t needed words to express the pride he took in his work or the love he had for his land. As he walked his farm, his face displayed the same emotions that a man might feel for his new bride or his firstborn.
The way Rand was beginning to feel about Brynn….
“That oak—” Joe pointed to a massive tree that would shade the entire farmhouse once its branches leafed out, “—has been here over three hundred years. That’s why my great-great-granddaddy chose this spot to build this house in 1768. Been Mauneys living here ever since. Always will be.”
It was the longest speech Joe had made that day.
At lunch in the sunny country kitchen, Rand had met Joe’s son, Josh, another huge man who said little but whose eyes also shone with pride when he spoke of the Mauney farm.
“You have a lot of valuable property here,” Rand had remarked casually. “After buying River Walk, I know how high land values are. You ever thought of selling and retiring?”
The entire family had frozen at his words, as if he’d suggested they cut off their right arms. Joe finally shook his head. “Some things you can’t put a price on,” he said before taking another bite of Vera’s succulent chicken casserole and dropping the subject.
Rand had left with a hand-carved wooden whistle Joe had given Jared and a huge jar of pear preserves put up by Vera. Rand also carried away the conviction that the Mauneys would never sell, that Farrington Properties could never acquire Mauney’s acres, no matter how much they offered. But Rand had consoled himself, knowing he still had a shot at Eileen Bickerstaff’s farm.
Several yards ahead on the street through the press of people, he spotted Brynn in front of a table. The lines of her tailored uniform and her officer’s cap made her appear taller than he remembered, but the austere cut of the navy shirt and slacks did nothing to camouflage the perfection of her sweet curves. And the shadow of her hat couldn’t hide the flawless bones of her face, or her eyes, a deep-water blue a man could drown in, or the saucy grin that reminded him of the taste of her kiss.
The grin, unfortunately, wasn’t aimed at him. She was talking directly to an ancient, stately woman who sat behind a table of glistening jars of jellies and jams and bottles of sparkling wine, but he could sense Brynn’s general alertness. On duty, she was aware of everyone and everything around her, and, he realized with a sinking heart, she had noticed him, too, but refused to acknowledge his presence.
He hurried to catch her before she moved on. “Good morning, Brynn.”
She turned, hands on her
hips, and tilted her head up to meet his gaze. Sunlight, and a fleeting emotion he couldn’t identify, sparked in her eyes. “Hi, Rand. Where’s Jared?”
“Home with Lillian. I thought I’d check things out this morning and bring him back this afternoon for a shorter stay.”
Brynn nodded toward a table in front of the Hair Apparent. “Amy Lou’s doing face paintings for kids. And there’s a merry-go-round set up on the school grounds. Jared might get a kick out of those.”
“Thanks. You working all day?” He hoped to talk her into dinner or at least a drink later.
Her relief was painfully evident when she answered, “The whole department’s on overtime for the duration of the festival.”
Rand, however, wasn’t about to give up. “When’s your next time off?”
A strong female voice with a hint of gravel in its tone interrupted. “Brynn, aren’t you going to introduce me to your young man?”
A flush of deep color worked it way from the collar of Brynn’s uniform to her cheeks. “Sure, Mrs.
Bickerstaff. This is Rand Benedict. He lives at River Walk. And he’s not my young man.”
The woman stood behind the table and stretched her hand across. “Howdy-do, Rand. Guess you can say we’re neighbors, although I do live up the road a piece.”
Rand tore his gaze from Brynn and shook Mrs. Bickerstaff’s hand. The woman was almost as tall as he was, with a ramrod posture and unexpectedly regal bearing at ninety-six. Her white hair was arranged in a style reminiscent of pictures of Gibson Girls and framed a face remarkably unlined. Soft gray eyes twinkled with a youthful spirit behind silver-rimmed glasses. Rand guessed she must have been a real beauty when she was younger.
“You’re the blackberry lady,” he said.
Mrs. Bickerstaff laughed. “I’ve been called worse. And you’re the Yankee lawyer.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Rand admitted with a grin, warming to the old woman.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Brynn said to her, “I have work to do.”
Spring in the Valley Page 9
